


All that I've become

by HPhaeton (Phaeton)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2006-03-08
Updated: 2006-07-14
Packaged: 2017-10-12 22:22:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/129769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phaeton/pseuds/HPhaeton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes fate grants you a third chance in life...</p><p>Warning: abandoned fic - posted for archiving purposes only.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  I left HP fandom thoroughly disenchanted in 2007 and haven't felt the need or inspiration to continue with this fic, so you can consider it pretty much abandoned. I'm only posting it here for archiving purposes.
> 
> Many thanks to **ne'ichan** and [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/kennahijja/profile)[**kennahijja**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/kennahijja/) for beta-ing and encouragement!  
>  **Disclaimer:** everything recognizable from Harry Potter belongs to JKR, etc. No money, just fun…

  
Several different smells attack his slowly awakening senses. The dusty and moist odor of ancient walls. The salty, fishy, rotten smell of the sea. But the most overwhelming one is the metallic smell of blood.

Coming back to consciousness is a difficult task. His eyelids are heavy and his head is throbbing painfully. His whole body is stiff and numb from the cold seeping through the thin layer of clothes. When he finally manages to open his eyes, he realises he is lying on his back on a hard stone floor.

Some part of his mind is telling him to just stay where he is, to close his eyes again and to sink back into the black abyss he just crawled out of. Common sense keeps him from giving in to that voice.

Carefully he starts moving, first only his fingers, then the hands. When he is sure he has control over his arms again, he shifts his weight a bit, trying to roll over onto his side and cautiously bringing himself into a sitting position.

Taking in his surroundings, he can't stifle a noise of surprise. Bare stone walls and floor, one dirty old mattress, one odd looking bucket, a small window without glass, but with iron bars. Opposite to it there's an iron door with an even smaller, grated window in it. The whole room is maybe nine or ten square metres. It looks like a kind of medieval prison cell.

From outside he can hear the sound of waves crashing on rocks, the screaming of sea-gulls.

What is this place, and why is he here?

Almost on second thought, the most important question pops into his mind. Who is he? When he tries to remember his name, he finds – nothing! Any kind of personal identity is non-existent, his memory seems to be nothing but blank, white space.

For moments he is unable to breathe, as panic rises like bile in his throat. When the pressure in his chest becomes too much, he starts panting, hyperventilating. Again, the smell of blood hits his nose. Concentrating hard, he forces himself to calm down into a deep and steady breathing pattern. With one sleeve he wipes the cold sweat from his forehead. When his pulse has slowed down enough, he begins to gather the facts.

There is a dark substance on the floor where his head has been. He touches it. Slightly sticky, almost dry blood. He runs his fingers over his head, feeling a lump and some cracked skin, but no obvious fracture. It's sensitive to the touch, and with a hiss of pain he takes the hand away. So he's probably suffering from a concussion, at least that would be a possible explanation for the memory loss. He notices he obviously has some medical knowledge…

Wait - his hair! It's very long and pale, that much he can see under the layer of dirt. Could this be an indicator as to how long he has been here?

He looks at his hands. They are not the hands of an old man. Taking off the bloodstained, blue and grey striped *thing* he is wearing over the trousers, he examines his body. Not the body of an old man, either. Dirty and covered in bruises, yes, but rather well in shape. There is hard, almost athletic muscle under taut skin. He can't help feeling a little pleased with his discovery. The long hair seems to be just his personal taste in coiffure…

But there is something about the shape of the bruises on his arms that alerts him. Their pattern indicates the grip of very strong hands. Had he been in a fight? He takes his trousers off as well and quickly runs his hands over his whole body, checking for injuries. There is pain, but luckily nothing is broken. He sighs in relief. More bruises, several cuts on his thighs and on the underside of his arms…it looks like he had been defending himself against a knife-attack.

Why does that thought seem so unlikely to him, that somebody would attack him with a *knife* of all things? He knows that there exists something far better suited for attacks, and that he himself is quite capable of using it. But he cannot grasp the thought regardless how hard he tries, even if it seems to be so very close to his mind.

Another question arises. When did that fight happen? Before or after he was brought here? The cuts are barely covered with scabs, and the bruises are dark, not greenish or yellow. Maybe a day old, or two.

His clothes, however – well, the rags which are now lying on the floor, to be precise – they are dirty and well worn, they smell of blood and sweat, and they look like some kind of uniform to him. Not like some individually chosen clothes, and most certainly not to his taste. It's very likely that they have been given to him when he arrived at this place. And from the state they are in, that wasn't just two days ago.

He has to conclude that the attack took place when he was already here. And that means he has to be very cautious if he encounters other people.

And what is the significance of that ugly tattoo on his left forearm? A skull and a snake…well, he likes snakes, but why a skull? When he touches it, he feels a slight tingling sensation. Strange.

Turning up his nose at the rags in disgust, he dresses himself again. It's freezing cold in the room and there's no other alternative.

He rises from the floor and checks one last thing. As expected, the door is locked. He looks through the small window. It's not quite twice as big as his head, and the grates are so close together that it's not possible to put a hand through them. What he sees is a narrow corridor, dimly lit by a few torches on the wall.

He turns around and looks over the room again. There is nothing here that could give him any new information on his current situation. But if he was attacked just recently, then it's risky to get in contact with other people. Well. He has no choice in that matter, has he? Turning back to the door, he clears his throat and tries to form words. It seems like he has not used his voice for some time.

"Hello?"

"Hello, can somebody hear me?"

Nothing.

Raising his voice, he tries once more.

"Hello, is there somebody out there?"

This time he can hear steps coming closer.

"Please, I would like to speak to you!"

The steps grow louder and then a man comes to a halt in front of the door. He is wearing long black robes. His scarred face breaks into a grotesque kind of sneer.

"What d'ya want, Malfoy?"

Malfoy.

A name with a familiar ring to it.

"You know who I am? Would you be so kind as to give me some information about my person, and about this place here?"

Dry laughter answers him.

"So, Azkaban's finally gettin' to ya, innit? Serves ya right, Death Eater scum!"

With that, the man turns to go.

"Wait, please! What do you mean by that?"

But he gets no more answer.

He takes a deep breath and starts pacing. Malfoy. His name, apparently. Azkaban. The name of a person? Or of this place? He thinks it's the latter, but he cannot be sure yet. Death Eater. It doesn't make any sense. What did the man, possibly a guard, mean by that?

Somehow he cannot think of himself as someone who has necrophilic or cannibalistic tendencies. Or both. He shudders. No, definitely not!

He sighs. Tomorrow, he will try again. Maybe then the man will be more talkative. Or maybe another person will answer his call. In his mind, he formulates the questions he will pose. When he is satisfied with them, he settles on the dirty mattress.

For a while he just lies there and listens to the waves and to the voices of the wind. The sounds are calming, lulling him to sleep. Dusk turns into night.

And with the night, come the nightmares…  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** everything recognizable from Harry Potter belongs to JKR, etc. No money, just fun…

He finds himself in a dark, sinister place, surrounded by faceless figures shrouded in black. Paralysed by coldness and fear he is unable to fight or to run.

Flashes of Green obscure his vision, then transform into a pair of eyes, green eyes full of rage and hatred, piercing right through his very being. And then he is falling, endlessly falling through the darkness, finally shattering on the ground.

Blood streams from his broken body, and when flickering Red strikes he cries out in pain. When he is almost too weak to stay conscious any longer, a feeling of calmness enters his mind.

He is floating in soothing warm liquid…until he is rising again, a ghostly, silvery spectre, leaving himself behind, just looking towards the bright shining light…

He awakes shaken and shivering. The images and feelings from his dream are still clear in his mind. They are confusing, disturbing. Lying motionless, he wonders if parts of the nightmare are actual memories, for there is a strong feeling of reality overlaying everything. A feeling so intense that it still has his heart pounding in a frantic rhythm inside his chest.

The coldness and the black figures…when he concentrates on those, he gets an impression of the recent past. He doesn't know how to put it better. It feels like something that happened to him not long ago, and yet it is miles away from him.

As he becomes aware of his surroundings once more, his distress grows even stronger. Judging from his experiences of the day, he would have expected that at night this place would be eerily silent. But it isn't. Now that he isn't focused solely on his dream, he hears them. The other…inmates.

Obviously he isn't the only one to suffer from nightmares. Moaning, crying, screaming, sighing, weeping – sounds of pain, sadness and despair. Low thumping noises, someone slowly but persistently banging on a metal door, maybe gone insane long ago.

It's maddening, and not at all helping him with calming down. He puts his hands over his ears to block out the sounds.

It helps. For much too short a time. The knowledge that those sounds will be there once more as soon as he takes his hands away irritates him even more.

Almost as if acting on instinct, he starts humming to himself, tries to block out the disturbing noises of the other inmates by creating noise himself. It works. The melody is slow and soothing, and it seems to chase away fear and tension. Something inside him just knows this melody, and so he isn't very surprised when words are forming in his head. He gives them voice, the humming turns into singing.

Softly at first, but when feelings of strength and relief start flushing through him, his singing becomes louder, stronger. The acoustics of the cell are astonishingly good, magnifying his voice and carrying it way beyond the room.

Te lucis ante terminum,  
Rerum Creator poscimus,  
Ut solite clementia,  
Sis praesul et custodia.

He rises, closes his eyes and puts all his concentration and feeling into the music. The Latin words are familiar to him, not only the text, but also the meaning.

Procul recedant somnia,  
Et noctium phantasmata.  
Hostemque nostrum comprime,  
Ne polluantur corpora.

And even though he is sure that he doesn't believe in the Christian god, pleading to him for protection and to keep him safe from nightmares seems the right thing to do at the moment.

Praesta, Pater omnipotens,  
Per Jesum Christum Dominum,  
Qui tecum in perpetuum  
Regnat cum Sancto Spiritu, Amen.*

He takes a deep breath. When he opens his eyes again, his mind is filled with peace and calm. The horrible weight on his chest, bearing him down just moments ago, is gone. And now that he is able to think again clearly, he notices several things at once.

He knows that the music was written by Thomas Tallis, an organist and composer of the English Renaissance who died at the end of the 16th century. He remembers that Tallis had a student named William Byrd, and that both of them were granted exclusive rights for the publication of vocal music by Queen Elizabeth I herself.

Somehow that knowledge saddens him, because he remembers more about the lives of Thomas Tallis and William Byrd than about his own.

He knows that those facts about Tallis are learned out of interest. It doesn't feel like knowledge achieved by boring, painful studying. No, he actually likes that music. Likes it very much. From it arises an air of serenity which speaks directly to his deepest emotions.

And then there is the silence. The only sounds he can hear are the soft flute-like tones of a draught whistling through the structure and the waves outside crashing against stone.

Cautiously he steps to the door and takes a look into the corridor. The torches are still burning. Nothing else is there.

Minutes pass by...and finally he hears something. A rough voice is whispering a soft plea to him.

"Please...sing again...please..."

He closes his eyes and does as bidden. This time he directs his singing right into the corridors, lets the acoustics fill them with his strong baritone. And when he finishes, he changes the voice and sings the second, slightly different version of the piece.

When he finally stops singing, it seems as if peace and calm have spread their wings and enfold the whole building in a protective embrace.

He returns to his mattress and lies down again, folds his hands over his chest and looks to the window. Through the small opening he can see a few bright stars. He watches them calmly until his eyes become heavy and he slips back into sleep.

This night, there is no more sighing. No more screaming, no more crying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Translation of "Te lucis ante terminum" as found in the booklet of "The King's Singers – English Renaissance". The Latin text is ascribed to Ambrose of Milan (possibly 7th century).
> 
> To you before the day's end,  
> we pray, Creator of all things,  
> that, by your clemency,  
> you might be our guard and keeper.
> 
> Put nightmares far from us,  
> And night terrors.  
> And restrain our enemies,  
> That our bodies not know pollution.
> 
> Grant this, Father most merciful,  
> Through the only one equal to the Father,  
> With the Spirit Paraclete,  
> Reigning through all ages. Amen.


End file.
